


by the grace of a ride along

by brawlite



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5 Times Geralt and Jaskier Banged Because Of Magic and 1 Time They Got There Themselves, 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Denial of Feelings, Dubious Consent, Friends With Benefits, Fuck Or Die, Jaskier is a good friend, M/M, Magic, Magic Made Them Do It, Negotiations, Pining, Sex Pollen, at least for now, geralt's emotions are in there somewhere probably, honestly each chapter can be read as a stand-alone, lying, magic fantasy science don't worry about it, some complicated emotions and conversations about consent, where did all of these feelings come from??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22140400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: They shouldn't so often find themselves in situations like this. And yet.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 270
Kudos: 1957





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **alternate title:** _5 Times Geralt and Jaskier Banged Because Of Magic and 1 Time They Got There All By Themselves_
> 
>  **consent warning:** the consent involved in sex pollen/fuck or die/etc. situations ranges from dubious to extremely dubious. if that's not your thing, then this likely isn't the story for you.

“You’re too late, Witcher.”

The mage stands on the top of the rocky mountain ridge, only a stone’s throw from Geralt. He shifts on the shale beneath his feet, unsteady but unwavering in the darkness. Only the light of the stars illuminates their encounter.

“Once the ritual is performed at dawn,” the mage tells him, “the transformation will be complete. My power will become unstoppable. All will bow to me, all will fear my wrath.”

The sun has not yet risen. There _is_ still time. This old fool should know better than to speak with such certainty on matters not yet complete.

“I can strike you down here and now,” Geralt tells him, unsheathing the sword on his back. Readying himself for a fight.

This man is not a monster, not in the strictest sense -- but he has already slaughtered too many to count in the nearby villages, and he is promising to become a devil with the transformation he seeks.

The mage laughs. His teeth are brilliant white and perfect as they snarl into something feral. Something that promises more ferocity as soon as he is able.

“You have already fallen into my trap, dear Witcher. You won’t have time to strike me down,” he gestures at Geralt -- more specifically, at his feet. He says an unfamiliar word under his breath, before Geralt can even blink, and the ground beneath his feet begins to hum and tremble.

Geralt looks down. He appears to be, unfortunately, standing in the middle of a circle of some unknown white powder that is now beginning to glow, likely due to whatever word the mage spoke. He tries to step out of the circle, to escape the pull of the magic before it can culminate, but his feet are glued to the ground. Cemented there by an unseen force. The light builds and builds, until it crescendos into a flare so blinding that Geralt can only close his eyes to the light.

When he opens his eyes again, he can’t see anything but white light, the after-image of the flare too strong. He takes a breath, listening to the wind and the beat of his heart in his ears, and blinks until he can see again.

When his vision returns, only a few seconds later, the mage is still standing across from him, smiling in a way that is unnervingly unfriendly. He has not moved, which means that the strike has already been made.

“Can you feel it, yet?” the mage asks.

Geralt doesn’t feel any differently than he did before, other than _annoyed_. He doesn’t feel enchanted, doesn’t feel cursed. When he tests his stance, his feet are no longer stuck to the ground, but that’s about it. But the mage doesn’t give him time to assess further, and decides to spare Geralt the questioning by continuing:

“Within the hour, Witcher, you will be consumed with madness, unable to contemplate anything other than your own carnal desires. By dawn, without release at the touch of another, you will perish.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Geralt says, with equal measures exasperation and disconent.

The mage laughs again, delighted and mean. He looks pleased with himself, charmed that he managed to catch Geralt so easily off guard. To his credit, it’s not an easy thing to do -- Geralt should not have been so distracted to fall into a trap so easily, but his expectations for this mage had been low, given the intel provided by the townspeople. And he hasn’t seen magic like this in hundreds of years.

“Everyone knows that Geralt of Rivia travels alone,” the mage continues. “And it’s a day’s journey to the nearest town. But you are more than welcome to make that race. I hear that your horse travels fast. Perhaps you will make it in time to save yourself, if you hurry.”

And with that, and another fucking flash of light, the mage is gone. Portaled into thin air. Likely only to return before dawn, by the time that Geralt is consumed by the curse and debilitated.

Geralt stares at the empty spot the mage was standing in a moment ago, and then looks down at the circle around his feet. The white powder is now black and charred. He kicks at it, breaking the circle. Some of the dust drifts off into the night and the rest just smears against the ground like soot.

“I _hate_ mages,” Geralt mutters.

Carnal curses are ancient spell, the knowledge of which are fading by year. Touched with the sulfuric remnants of old, dark magic. It has left Geralt with a bitter taste at the back of his throat and an itch at the base of his spine.

The only thing that he can think of now is to return to camp, and so that is what he does.

\--

“You’re back early,” Jaskier says, looking up from his spot the fire. The flames paint his face in an easy, orange light. Softening his features into something silky, something round. There’s concern in the slight downturn of his lips, and a ready alertness in his bright eyes. “Everything settled?”

They haven’t been traveling together for too long, but Geralt finds Jaskier easy to read. He has become more perceptive in their time together, more ready for all of the harm that can befall them on their journeys.

“Hm.” Geralt looks around the camp, like somehow _that_ will help. Like his solution is hiding under a bedroll, beneath Roach’s hooves, or behind the trunks of the nearby trees.

He’s warm now and sweating, and so he strips off the outermost layer of his armor and lets it fall to the leafy ground.

“Geralt?” Jaskier says, concerning lacing his words with a bit higher frequency than earlier. He pushes himself up from the fire and starts advancing toward Geralt. “Did you kill the mage?”

Geralt grunts out something that sounds enough like a _no_. “He cursed me,” Geralt says, through clenched teeth.

“Oh. That’s -- Are you alright?” Jaskier says, though he’s turning already for Geralt’s pack. “Do you need a potion? I’m sure we can find one that’ll work.”

Geralt watches as he dumps about fifteen glass vials onto the ground and begins to paw through them. He eventually tears his eyes away from Jaskier’s fumbling hands and slender, pale fingers and begins readying Roach for the journey back to town. They passed a brothel on the way out of town -- which means at least Geralt knows where to find the relief he will need to seek. Whether or not Roach can make a day’s journey in three hours is another question entirely, though he has the utmost of faith in her; she is a good horse and Geralt is a fast rider. If he has his coin ready, he should be able to pay even without all of his faculties present.

“What kind of curse, Geralt?” Jaskier asks. He’s suddenly _there_ , right next to Geralt, pressing into his space without any regard for his own safety. Like usual.

“Ancient magic,” Geralt says. “Of a carnal nature. A spell that will drive me to madness, and then worse, without release.”

“You were cursed with _desire_?” Jaskier asks, barking out a laugh. He sounds delighted. It’s annoying. “Well that’s not so bad, is it?”

“If I don’t consummate the curse before dawn, I’ll perish. The madness will set in well before that,” Geralt says. “Not exactly trivial. If I leave now, I might be able to make it to town. There’s a brothel.”

“Seems like a strange choice for a spell.”

“Witchers always choose to travel alone. He knew this, he planned on it.”

Jaskier hums. He bites at his lip, considering. “Lucky for you, that you have such a trusty traveling companion, then.”

Geralt huffs and turns back toward Roach, fingers fumbling with the straps on her saddle. “You’ll only slow me down,” he says.

With a frustrated sound, Jaskier catches him around the wrist. Stopping him.

“There’s no way to make it to town before dawn, Geralt,” Jaskier tells him. “Don’t be daft.”

“Would you have me die?” Geralt asks. The accusation feel syrupy on his tongue. Warm and viscid, like honey. Like he has guzzled too much mead too quickly.

“You’re very dim,” Jaskier tells him. He’s holding Geralt tight, keeping him from Roach, keeping him from his _cure_.

The anger flares white hot inside him. Geralt wants to punch his captor in the gut, wants to see him double over in pain and at Geralt’s mercy like he has been before. He wants to push Jaskier into the dirt and keep him there with his own body, prone and panting into the dead leaves. He wants to feel the heat of Jaskier’s body against his own. He wants --

“Let me _leave_ , bard,” Geralt hisses. The touch of Jaskier’s fingers around his wrist is white hot and burning. Geralt should be able to pull away from it, but he cannot. Like magic, it holds him fast.

“The simple answer is right in front of you, Geralt. Or are you already so affected by the curse that you cannot see it?”

Geralt’s head spins. Jaskier steps closer. It feels like the ground is shifting underneath his very feet. Jaskier is so close now that Geralt can feel the heat of him, fire hot, even through their clothes. He takes a breath and lets it out, trying to collect his thoughts. Trying to ignore the beginnings of the fever that has wormed its way into his veins.

“I will _die_ ,” Geralt says. If he lives, he can perhaps fight the mage again, once the transformation is complete. Dead, he is useless. Dead, even more people will perish. Dead, Jaskier will likely perish, too, without Geralt to protect him.

“What you need is a skilled lover that isn’t a day’s ride away. Is there something so repulsive about me that you would not even consider the obvious solution?”

The realization slides into place so easily that Geralt is unsure how he hasn’t thought of it before. It feels like a slap to the face.

“Oh,” Geralt says. His tongue feels a little too large for his mouth. Jaskier’s fingers are still hot around his wrist. His thumb begins to move slightly, rubbing in a small circle over Geralt’s pulse, which seems to be beating faster than normal.

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Jaskier says.

“But you don’t --” Geralt says. He sways. He’s so dizzy, so _warm_. He pulls at his overshirt and discards that on the dirt, too. It’s damp with sweat, thick with the scent of feverish magic. “With men,” he says.

Jaskier laughs. “I’m equal-opportunity, dear witcher. Do you think I would limit myself in such a way?”

Geralt doesn’t think _anything_ , at the moment. His thoughts aren’t exactly clear, and they’re certainly nowhere near _speculative_.

Geralt’s silence doesn’t stop Jaskier from continuing. Nothing ever seems to prevent Jaskier from continuing, _especially_ not Geralt’s silences.

“Do you think I wouldn’t help a friend, Geralt?” Jaskier says. “I’m wounded, that you’d think we weren’t good enough friends to help each other out of tight places.”

Geralt grunts. “I don’t have friends.”

“Oh, my mistake,” Jaskier says.

He reaches out and touches at the laces of Geralt’s undershirt. He starts undoing the bindings with a gentle, but deliberate touch. Freeing Geralt from the constraints of yet another binding article of clothing.

“Well, I consider you _my_ friend,” Jaskier says, as he slides the shirt over Geralt’s head. “And I believe that’s enough. Would you let me help you, dear Witcher? I promise I am _quite_ skilled.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Geralt says.

At least in a brothel, Geralt would be exchanging coin for services rendered. He has nothing to give to Jaskier -- especially when offering to pay would likely only add insult to injury. It shouldn’t worry him, offending Jaskier, but Geralt can’t help but find himself dwelling on the implications of it all, the unbalanced nature of this proposed trade.

“It is _really_ no trouble,” Jaskier tells him, placing a steady palm on Geralt’s chest, right over his beating heart. His touch is scalding, searing. It feels like Geralt’s heart is racing, fluttering, skipping underneath the press of his fingers. “You are eminently easy on the eyes. It would be an honor to help you sate your desire, _especially_ in the face of such an impending catastrophe. _Think_ of the songs I could write.”

Geralt growls. He reaches out and catches Jaskier by the collar. “No songs.”

Jaskier just laughs. It sounds like bells on the night air, the most beautiful sound Geralt has ever heard. “No songs,” Jaskier promises. “Just pleasure and release. So, did the mage say what exactly had to transpire to relieve you from you curse?”

His fingers are trailing through the hair on Geralt’s chest, through the sweat that is beading there. Up this close, Jaskier smells sweet, like the juniper oil he favors for his hair, and pleasantly musky too, from the sweat and the dirt from their travels. Geralt closes his eyes to the sensations and leans into the touch, a gentle hum in his throat.

“Geralt, talk to me. What did the mage say? Are my fingers enough?” he asks, and Geralt can’t help but imagine the way those slender fingers would take care of him. “Or must it be my mouth?” Jaskier continues. Geralt nearly chokes on the rich sweetness of _that_ thought. “Or will that not be enough to sate the magic?”

Geralt wants all of it. Anything Jaskier will give him.

“He didn’t say,” Geralt says.

“Shall we find out, then?” Jaskier asks.

“Are you positive?” Geralt asks, opening his eyes to finally allow himself to look at Jaskier again, in the hopes of centering himself before this progresses any further. He is already feverish with need, but he still feels capable of somewhat rational thought. He needs to _know_ that this is fine, that Jaskier is willing to do this with him, for him.

Jaskier’s gaze is light in the darkness, and focused intently on Geralt. He looks more serious than perhaps Geralt has ever seen him, before.

“Of course,” Jaskier says. “Are _you_ , Geralt?” The press of his fingers retreats, giving Geralt a reprieve he did not ask for. He wants to lean forward, to seek out that touch like a moth to light.

“Yes,” Geralt says, with a curt nod of his head.

He does not want to die, of course -- but that is not _entirely_ it, either. Jaskier himself is not unseasy on the eyes, Geralt must admit. Despite his many and numerous annoying qualities, he seems as if he would be an attentive, enthusiastic lover. Geralt has glanced his way on occasion, just to appreciate his form, or to even imagine how a coupling between them would transpire. But Jaskier, so very vocal about his wants and desires on the regular, had never before mentioned such a desire or even an inclination -- and so, it simply had not happened, as Geralt had sensed no such interest. They were traveling companions, and that was that.

Jaskier is suddenly gripping Geralt by the chin, forcing Geralt to look down and meet his gaze. His grip is steady, unwavering. It feels strange to tremble beneath it, to let Jaskier hold him so.

“Geralt, is this -- well, ‘ _is it what you want’_ is clearly not the right question, because it’s clearly _not_ what you want -- but is this something you will be fine with by dawn, by the time the curse has worn off?”

“Yes,” Geralt says. Even in the starlight, Jaskier’s eyes are brilliant blue. More dazzling than any gem, more enchanting than any spell. “I trust you,” he says, because he doesn’t know what _else_ to say -- and because ‘ _I want you’_ is too heavy, and the sheer thought of the words has them catching like barbs on his tongue.

Jaskier looks a little shocked, a little _bewildered_ , at even that admission, but he doesn’t let it phase him for long. Only a beat, during which he tongues over his bottom lip and lets out a quiet huff, the likes of which Geralt cannot decipher.

But the words and the sentiment must be right, because Jaskier nods, then. “Alright,” he says, “that’s good. So, then, we can just figure it out along the --”

Before Jaskier can finish his thought, before he can even reach out for Geralt again, Geralt surges forward and catches Jaskier’s lips in a hungry kiss, eating up the remnants of his words. He tastes so _good_. It’s bewildering, bewitching. It makes Geralt burn even hotter, makes the blood boil right underneath his skin. He groans into the kiss, fingers fisting in the silken fabric of Jaskier’s shirt.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, against Geralt’s lips. “Oh, _yes_.” And truly, Geralt was a fool for thinking there was a way to truly steal all of Jaskier’s words away from him. Even occupied, he’ll find a way to run his mouth.

Geralt hums in agreement, and walks them backward toward the bedrolls that are set up on the ground. It takes no effort to lower Jaskier down onto Geralt’s roll and then crowd in on top of him. It’s more of an orchestrated decision than he should be capable of right now -- but Geralt wants Jaskier in a space that smells like Geralt -- and doubly, he wants his own roll to smell of Jaskier when this is all over, too.

“Oh, fuck, _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier moans, as Geralt presses him against the ground, slotting their bodies together so that he can mouth at Jaskier’s jaw while rutting against him.

It is a strange sensation, the need that is growing within him. It is hot like a fever, electric like the pull of addiction. Not unlike the natural pull of desire he feels once already engaged and occupied -- just heightened, stretched. It is unignorable, but Geralt is not left entirely without his thoughts and faculties -- at least not _yet_. The grind of his cock against Jaskier’s rapidly hardening one is a welcome relief, even through the layers of both of their trousers.

It’s easy to lose himself in the sensations, in the way Jaskier lets Geralt lick into his mouth and the way he so easily does so in return. The little bard is full of such delightful sounds, moans and whimpers and breathy whines -- Geralt is happy to pull them all from him -- that is, until their animalistic rutting proves to be not quite _enough_. That itch within him, getting more persistent by the minute.

Jaskier is wearing too many clothes, Geralt decides. They both are.

With clumsier hands than usual, Geralt fumbles at the ties to Jaskier’s trousers. Jaskier, smarter and quicker than he ever makes himself out to be, follows suit. He has Geralt’s cock in his soft, nimble fingers before Geralt is even finished. The touch is distracting, and Geralt finds himself panting against Jaskier’s neck, biting at a vein that pumps right under the surface of his skin.

Jaskier’s fingers offer relief sweeter than Geralt has ever felt. Every pull of his wrist leaves Geralt groaning, arching into his touch. Jaskier was right; he _is_ talented. His touch is everything Geralt could possibly want and more, dizzying with how _good_ it is.

“Fuck,” Geralt breathes out, breathing heavily agains Jaskier’s lips. He doesn’t quite kiss him, just licks against his lips, breathing in Jaskier’s warm, secondhand air. There’s something intimate about it, about finally getting his fingers around Jaskier’s cock and stroking each other in time.

“You feel so good,” Jaskier tells him, nipping at Geralt’s lower lip. “Holy -- your _fingers_ , Geralt -- gods, they are so _clever_ , so strong, so sure --”

Dimly, Geralt wants to ask if Jaskier _ever_ shuts up, but he just manages a grunt, thrusting into the warmth of Jaskier’s grip, too lost to the building pleasure of it all.

Jaskier just keeps on talking, keeps on offering his praises up to the stars, babbling like a beautiful fool until he spills himself in Geralt’s hand. Geralt follows soon after, taken with the sound of Jaskier’s pleasure, his release hitting him like a swift kick to the gut. Overwhelming, near-painful, and hard enough to knock the breath straight out of him.

His head swims as he pants wetly against Jaskier’s neck.

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asks him, after a moment of silence. Around them, the woods are quiet, save for the rustling of the night wind through the trees. “Are you -- how do you feel, Geralt?”

Geralt assesses himself. His head feels -- well, it feels foggy with the intoxication of orgasm -- but perhaps it does feel clearer than before. Yes, the lingering warmth he feels must just be the heat of Jaskier’s body pressed so tightly against his own, Geralt’s sweat seeping into the nice fabric he hadn’t even thought to remove. Now, he wishes he had, wishes he had given himself free access to all of Jaskier, just for the excuse to touch, to allow himself the indulgence just this once. After all, this gift was offered up only now, when there was no other path forward -- Geralt doubts that it will be so freely offered up again.

A wave of nausea churns in his gut, something cold gripping at the base of his ribcage with sharp talons.

Geralt rolls over onto his back, freeing Jaskier from the weight of Geralt on top of him and pinning him down, even though the motion nearly pains him. He doesn’t _want_ to pull away from Jaskier’s warmth, doesn’t _want_ to give him space to breathe.

“I feel fine,” Geralt says, even as the ground shifts below him, unsteady as if he has had too much to drink.

Next to him, Jaskier pushes himself upright, frowning as he wipes his hand off on Geralt’s bedroll. Under any other circumstances, Geralt would feel annoyance or even anger -- but now, he cannot be more relieved; the roll will now smell so _much_ like Jaskier. If Geralt so wished, he could press his face down into the blankets and breathe in the scent of the two of them, together. Until he was high off their scents mingling.

“That was shockingly simple,” Jaskier says. “Were not all problems so straightforward.”

Clumsily, Geralt wipes his hand off on his bedroll, too. He does not think of the future regrets he’ll have at the mess -- just of the ability to keep Jaskier with him for longer than this night.

“So, that’s it?” Jaskier asks. His fingers are working at his trousers, tucking himself back in and tying himself back up. Covering himself up from Geralt.

Another wave of nausea hits him. The stars above him blur and spin. A flood of heat hits him once more, wrapping around him like a great serpent, choking the air right out of his lungs. Geralt closes his eyes to it all.

“Geralt?”

Geralt clenches his teeth until his jaw aches.

“ _Geralt,_ are you alright?”

Jaskier reaches out to touch him, just a simple press of his fingertips to Geralt’s bare, sweat-damp shoulder. It scalds. It stings. It feels _so good_. Geralt groans, loud and desperate and oh so pained.

“Not that simple then,” Jaskier says. “Process of elimination, then, alright?”

Geralt doesn’t have time to ask what Jaskier means, because those perfect fingers are wrapping around Geralt’s apparently still-hard cock, working him over as if he hadn’t ever stopped.

Geralt groans again, relief flooding him once more. It’s not _enough_ though -- it’s just a salve, not a cure, that much he knows. He needs more. He’s going to burn up, if he doesn’t get it, soon. It _hurts_.

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes out, pleading. His fingers ball into fists.

“I’ve got you, dear witcher,” Jaskier promises, and then swallows him down.

The heat of Jaskier’s mouth around Geralt’s cock feels natural, pure. Like all the pieces of the universe have slotted together in their rightful place, no longer leaving Geralt burning up and lost to the chaos of the flames, but contained. Like a wildfire, tamed.

The respite he feels from it is heady, cleansing, cooling. And most notably, centering. It’s as if the whole world has condensed itself into a single pinpoint of focus, of importance.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt says, as he slides his fingers into the soft locks of Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier bobs his head and sucks Geralt down.

Jaskier does not need skill or talent to give Geralt what he needs -- but he has both of those in spades. Each dart of Jaskier’s devil tongue is practiced, perfect. Each swallow leaves Geralt shuddering underneath his attention. Even Jaskier’s hands, which are steadying Geralt by the hips, calloused fingertips brushing against skin and scars, are exactly what Geralt needs.

Geralt does not expect Jaskier to swallow him down so wholly that he can feel the tightness of the bard’s throat around him, but he does. He doesn’t sing for Geralt tonight, but he does moan, especially when Geralt’s fingers tug at his hair and pull him back up just so that he can relish the way Jaskier laps at the head of Geralt’s cock before sucking him down, mouth wet and warm and wanton.

With the practiced patience of an expert lover, Jaskier strings Geralt’s pleasure out until Geralt is nearly crying out, dizzy with it, desperate.

“Fuck, _Jaskier,_ ” Geralt pleads. “I need -- I _need_ \--”

He needs to come. He needs release. He needs _Jaskier_.

Jaskier doesn’t pull off to reassure Geralt with his words, but he hums, and brushes his thumbs over Geralt’s hip bones once more with a touch so perfect it leaves Geralt’s skin tingling, and swallows him down deep.

It’s not long before Geralt’s pleasure crests once more and he spills himself down Jaskier’s throat, hips lurching forward into that perfect, wet heat. Jaskier swallows him down, greedy, sucking at him until Geralt is shivering and oversensitive and tugging Jaskier back up with his hair with a grunt.

It’s too _much_. The wisps of the orgasm are still buzzing along at the edges of his vision, and Jaskier was _teasing_ him, milking him for all he’s worth. Was Jaskier trying to _kill_ him?

When he meets Jaskier’s eyes with weary trepidation, unsure what he will find there, he’s shocked to find Jasker smiling, eyes hazy with satisfaction and contentment as he rests his chin on Geralt’s hip and laps at his lips, cleaning up any slick mess.

“Ooh, that scowl on your face says you’re feeling better,” Jaskier says. “Am I right?”

Geralt swallows. He disentangles his fingers from Jaskier’s hair. He’s not entirely sure why his fingers held so tightly there in the first place, but they had. It’s easier to stop touching Jaskier this time. The movement, now, comes only with the shame of his predicament instead of a feverish unwillingness to give any small part of it up.

“Hm,” Geralt grunts, shifting until he is sitting up on his elbows. His head does not spin with the action, and his skin, sweaty as it is, now only feels chilly in the night air. “You’re right. I feel better.”

He does, it’s the truth this time. The fever has broken, and the remaining itch of magic has left his skin.

Geralt wonders if this liaison between them has changed anything, if has shifted the sands beneath their feet. He wonders if, by the next town they make it to, Jaskier will take his leave of Geralt like Geralt so often tells him to do. The thought of Jaskier leaving unprompted leaves a sour, unfamiliar taste in Geralt’s mouth.

Jaskier works his jaw. “You’re quite large,” he says, conversationally.

“Are you --”

“Oh shove it,” Jaskier says. “Of course I’m alright. Don’t fret.”

Geralt’s throat feels tight with annoyance. “I wasn’t,” he says.

“I know,” Jaskier says with a roll of his eyes Geralt can better hear in the tone of his voice than see. “ _Thank you, Jaskier_ ,” Jaskier says. “Oh, think nothing of it, it was my _pleasure_ , really.”

Geralt grunts.

He doesn't know how to thank Jaskier for something so serious, something so heavy.

“Seriously, though,” Jaskier says. “All joking aside, I don’t want you getting all strange on me. This was fine by me. Was it fine by you?”

“Yes,” Geralt says, after few long beats of his heart. Of course it was fine. It was enjoyable. _Twice_ so.

“Good,” Jaskier says. “Glad that’s sorted. Now, don’t you have a mage with absolutely no morals to gut like a pig?”

\--

By the time the mage returns through his portal, Geralt is waiting for him atop the mountain, sword drawn. The mage isn’t given a chance to feel surprise or even despair before Geralt is stabbing him through the heart, the first rosy fingers of dawn beginning to reach up toward the heavens on the other side of the mountain as the first drops of blood hit the ground.

When dawn breaks fully, orange and bright, they are already back on the road, Geralt on Roach and Jaskier at his side, strumming along on his lute with those deft fingers of his, plucking away at a song that has no lyrics, yet -- but soon will, if Jaskier’s murmuring is anything to go by.

At least for now, everything as it should be once more.

At least for now, everything is fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i only just finished the witcher _yesterday_. help me.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaskier feels great. That’s all there really is to be said on the matter.

The sky is bright and blue, the air is brisk and fresh, and even the birdsong is airy and jubilant.

Nevermind that he’s covered in blood and slime and monster bits. Jaskier feels _spectacular_. His clothes are maybe ruined, but that’s just an opportunity in disguise, a chance to trade in for a new outfit, to spend some of his hard-earned coin on a treat for himself. Maybe something in forest green. _Ooh_ , or a nice crimson, with gold detailing. Red really brings out his eyes.

Next to where he stands is the corpse of a particularly nasty fiend that just met its demise by Geralt’s hand. Jaskier doesn’t remember what it was called, in the same way that he doesn’t really _care_ that it knocked him to the ground earlier and batted him around a bit before Geralt distracted it again. Jaskier doesn’t think he cares about much at all, right now -- other than how spectacular he’s feeling.

Jaskier’s eyes turn away from his ruined clothes and land on Geralt, who is looking at him with a funny expression on his face.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt asks, taking a cautious step toward Jaskier, like he might spook like a wild thing. It’s funny, Geralt being so _gentle_ , and so Jaskier laughs.

“I’m fine,” Jaskier says. But no, that sounds wrong. He quickly amends that to: “I’m _great_ ,” because it’s way more accurate, and he thinks Geralt might appreciate that.

Everything is shimmering around the edges, glowing like there’s a heavenly aura around it all. Like the gods have blessed them mightily this day. Geralt’s hair is practically on fire with how white-hot it is, how angelic and otherworldly. If it were dark, the glow of it could practically light up the whole clearing, Jaskier thinks. He wobbles a little on his feet, fingers suddenly burning with the need to reach out and _touch_ it, to feel what divinity might feel like against the tips of his fingers.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, voice concerned. He takes another step. “Let me help you.”

Jaskier’s head spins. He feels dizzy, but in the pleasant way he does after a few drinks. Warm and welcome in his own skin, itching to fall into the sensation of it.

Greedy, and -- 

\-- Jaskier definitely wants Geralt’s help. With what, he’s not exactly sure, but he definitely wants it. No -- he needs it.

“Where are you hurt?” Geralt asks.

Suddenly, _suddenly,_ Geralt is close enough to touch. And touch he does; because then his hands are everywhere, but more gentle than Jaskier thinks he’s ever been before in his life -- carefully stripping Jaskier of his blood-stained doublet. He hums, confused, like he always does, when he’s got Jaskier stripped down to his chemise. He even gets his fingers in Jaskier’s hair, carding through it like he’s searching for a wound.

“Jaskier, pay attention: where are you hurt?”

“I’m _not_ hurt,” Jaskier tells him. “I feel amazing.” It’s not Jaskier who needs to pay better attention; it’s _Geralt._

It’s as Geralt spins him around for more inspection that he hears the witcher’s tell-tale and favorite curse. And then:

“Scratches, on your back. Not deep, though. Can you feel this?”

Geralt is holding Jaskier by the hip with one hand and prodding his fingertips somewhere near Jaskier’s spine. It’s a little numb, maybe -- doesn’t hurt at all. Truthfully, all Jaskier can focus on is the firm press of Geralt’s fingers through the thin fabric of his chemise. His touch practically burns at every point of contact, but in a pleasant way, like a massage with warm oil, or the kiss of the sun on a summer’s day.

“Your hands are really warm,” Jaskier says.

“You’re slurring,” Geralt says.

“I’m not,” Jaskier slurs.

He really does feel a little drunk, though. A little warm, a little dizzy. Maybe he’s slurring, but he’s not going to just admit that to _Geralt_ , who’s going to judge him for not being tough or robust.

“We need to wash you off. Some of the venom might have gotten into your bloodstream. Can you walk?”

“I really think I’m okay,” Jaskier says. Mostly because he feels so much better than okay, and also, because no, he does _not_ think he can walk. He’ll just stand here for the rest of the day feeling dizzy and great, thank you.

Geralt mutters something likely unflattering and perhaps uncharitable (knowing Geralt) under his breath, and then Jaskier is being scooped up and hoisted right over Geralt’s shoulder. With the suddenness of the action, the entire world spins, sending Jaskier into a fit of giggles. The dizzying nature of it _should_ leave him feeling sick, but it’s just as pleasant as the rest of it has been.

As they walk, Jaskier gets a great view of twigs and leaves on the ground. Of grass crunching underneath Geralt’s boots. But also, at this most haphazard angle, he gets a _great_ view of Geralt’s ass. It’s fascinating to watch as he walks. Toned and fit and quite snug in the leather trousers he wears. Very, _very,_ nice to look at.

By the time they reach a stream, Jaskier feels even warmer. Feverish, even. When Geralt sets him down on legs as unsteady as a fawn’s, Jaskier immediately starts pulling at his shirt, grappling with it until it’s tossed down on the streambank. Then, he starts working at his trousers with fumbling, desperate hands. He’s so _warm_.

But he doesn’t get the chance to finish. Geralt picks him up again, arms under his legs and his back -- like one might carry a blushing bride -- and then, without so much as a warning, Geralt simply wades into the deepest part of the stream to submerge them both into the icy waters.

Jaskier comes up sputtering, spitting water out of his mouth. He’s panting, like he can’t quite catch his breath, like maybe Geralt tried to _drown_ him.

“What the fuck?” Jaskier twists in Geralt’s arms. “Put me _down._ ”

He can’t deny that the flash of cold water woke him up, at least a bit. Got him thinking a little bit clearer.

Geralt, somewhat reluctantly, lets Jaskier slip from his arms. When Jaskier’s feet settle on the slippery rocks at the bottom of the stream, he has to grab ahold of Geralt’s armor to keep himself upright. It keeps him close to Geralt, too, which feels right. Jaskier can’t put his finger on why, exactly, but it’s _good_. It feels like he doesn’t have anywhere else he wants to be.

So much so that when Geralt tries to pull himself free, Jaskier whines. A truly embarrassing noise slipping from his throat, like an animal sickened by heat.

“Fuck,” Geralt says.

Because Geralt possesses far more strength than Jaskier, he easily wrenches himself away from Jaskier -- though to Jaskier’s delight, he doesn’t leave or go far at all. He only turns Jaskier around so that he can splash cold water over the scratches on his back, likely clearing them of any blood and viscera and, perhaps, venom, like he mentioned earlier. His touch is gentle, as far as Jaskier can tell, with his skin there still feeling largely numb to much, other than pressure and the heat of Geralt’s palms.

“Does this hurt?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier can barely feel the prod of a fingertip. Just the barest hint of pressure, likely as Geralt pokes close to his wound. “No.”

Geralt curses.

“Sorry, is it _supposed_ to?”

Geralt huffs. “The venom acts as a numbing agent. Means it got into your bloodstream.”

Jaskier _should_ feel afraid, but it’s a distant thing. _Venom_ sounds bad, and _in your bloodstream_ likely should make it even worse -- but he can’t quite bring himself to care. Not when he’s feeling so good as it is. It couldn’t possibly be all _that_ damaging, right?

“Oh, well, that’s fine,” Jaskier says.

“How do you feel?” Geralt asks.

“Great,” Jaskier says again, because that hasn’t changed. Sure, he’s warmer, and maybe dizzier, too -- but other than that, he really _does_ feel fine. Other than -- well -- he feels a little _flushed_. Hungry, maybe? Like he definitely needs something, but can’t quite put his finger on _what_.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt says, like a warning.

And that -- Gods. That’s lovely. His name melts over Geralt’s tongue like the finest of chocolates. It feels like silk, like a siren song to Jaskier’s ears. He hums.

“Say it again?” Jaskier asks, feeling brave. Feeling indulgent.

Geralt doesn’t indulge him. Just hums something that sounds annoyed and twists Jaskier around to look at him again. Those bright and careful eyes study Jaskier’s face, a thin frown upon his lips. He grasps Jaskier by the chin and forces him to look up, to meet Geralt’s steely gaze. It feels heady and makes his head spin.

“Your pupils are dilated,” Geralt says. “Talk to me, Jaskier, I know you can do that. What are you feeling?”

There he goes again, letting Jaskier’s name drip all over his tongue like honey. It sends a shiver down Jaskier’s spine. He wants to taste it. Wonders if it’s as sweet as it sounds.

“I feel…” he starts, but trails off, getting distracted. He’s warm. He’s wet. His trousers are clinging to him in an uncomfortable way. “I feel -- _Oh_ ,” Jaskier says, as he reaches down to adjust his trousers, and instead palms his apparently very erect cock through the watery fabric. He hadn’t even _noticed_ that he was hard, but the immediate touch feels so good, like white-hot relief. He’s not even sure how he _missed_ it, but he’d been so caught up in feeling nice, in Geralt being so close, that he just wasn’t paying attention.

“Fuck,” Geralt says. “That’s what I was worried about.” Illuminating, as always.

Jaskier isn’t an exhibitionist. He’s not normally keen on getting himself off with someone watching and not actively participating, but that apparently doesn’t stop him from palming himself again with a barely-stifled moan. It feels so good that he nearly doubles over with the pleasure of it, burying his face against the stiff armor at Geralt’s broad shoulder.

Which is -- definitely not something he would normally do. Sure, they had that _moment_ together almost a year ago, when Jaskier helped Geralt through that mage’s curse -- but they haven’t had any _moments_ like that, since then.

Right now, Jaskier is struggling to understand why, exactly, that is.

Because Geralt is big, and he is warm, and he is absolutely drop dead gorgeous. There’s literally nothing stopping them from having a bit of fun together from time to time, right? Besides, Jaskier knows that he’s easy on the eyes, too, so it’s not like it would be that much of a _hardship_.

They hadn’t exactly talked about the aftermath of the mage incident in the days that followed, but that didn’t mean that it was _bad_ , right? Jaskier simply hadn’t wanted to rock the boat, hadn’t wanted Geralt to push him away -- and he hadn’t. So, Jaskier had simply let it slide, desperate to keep their footing even and Geralt happy.

Now, though -- now, he can’t help but think back on that day and want. Desperately.

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier says -- or perhaps it’s more of a whine.

“You will be alright,” Geralt tells him. “We should get you out of the water. Back to the camp and into dry clothes.” He doesn’t sound very sure about that.

Jaskier cannot -- though he doesn’t exactly try very hard -- stop touching himself.

“Back to the camp,” he echoes, face pressed against Geralt’s damp armor. “Good, yes.”

Back to the camp, and Geralt can spread him out on one of their bedrolls and take him.

That settled, Geralt lifts him again, the same as before, which is only unfortunate because it means that Jaskier cannot keep touching himself. And with that relief gone, he’s suddenly flooded with desire, fiery and devastating beyond fathom. It plummets suddenly from something nice and dizzying, to something desperate and cloying.

“Oh, fuck. Geralt, I think I’m _dying_ ,” Jaskier whines, squirming as best as he can in Geralt’s iron grip.

It feels like the cool water loosened his tongue, words flowing more freely than before. Or maybe it’s the underlying panic working its magic, instead. He feels a little more clear-headed, but absolutely more affected, too. This isn’t the buzz of a couple ales -- this is something far more sinister, and the effects seem to be growing by the second.

“You’re not dying.” Again, he could certainly sound more reassuring.

“I am,” Jaskier promises in a voice that sounds a little too rough to be his own. “Gods, I’m burning up. Geralt, you cannot keep me like this. Put me down, this is torture!”

Geralt’s hold only tightens, though he does seem to pick up his pace. The ride, so to speak, is rough with Geralt’s hurried gait, and by the time they reach the camp, Jaskier is groaning and dripping with sweat. His veins feel as if they are on fire and his head spins, pounding out a rhythm that cannot possibly be from his heart, for it is far too fast. He feels, perhaps, like the need will make him rend his own skin from his flesh, tearing himself to shreds in the process.

“Please, Geralt, this is _misery_ ,” Jaskier says, when they arrive at the clearing with all of their belongings. “I’m going to _die_.”

“You are not dying,” Geralt says again.

“Are you _positive?”_ Jaskier asks. “Because it feels like I’m dying.”

Geralt, gingerly, sets Jaskier down.

To steady himself, Jaskier immediately grabs onto Geralt’s sodden armor, not trusting his legs. His knees feel wobbly and his head is spinning. The added bonus is that it keeps him close to Geralt.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, slumping forward against Geralt’s chest with a whine. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question.”

Geralt hums, in his ever-enlightening way. It’s a moment, a breath, a heartbeat, before he says: “No. I’m not positive.”

Jaskier’s chest tightens. The panic that’s been growing like a bubble underneath his ribcage explodes upwards, shoving his lungs straight into his throat.

But before Jaskier can say anything else, Geralt is pulling him back, large hands so warm and firm against Jaskier’s bare shoulders. “I can help, if you will let me,” he says.

“How is that even a question?” Jaskier asks. “Of course I want help. Why wouldn’t I want help?”

Jaskier searches Geralt’s face, only to find an unreadable expression there. A grimace, a tenseness in his jaw -- and, perhaps, the faintest tinge of red over the apples of Geralt’s cheeks.

But, despite Geralt’s earlier silence, and his unexpressed sentiments, he seems to have no compunction about calling it like it is. “We’ll have to fuck.”

“Is that it?” Jaskier asks.

Because Geralt’s strange reaction certainly led Jaskier to believe it was something far more sinister.

“It’s not like we haven’t before,” Jaskier says, before Geralt can argue. “Besides, that’s very clearly what my body wants. -- Gods, I am burning up. Is it warm? How are you not warm?”

With that, he starts pulling at Geralt’s armor, trying to relieve Geralt from its weight -- trying to get at the body that’s trapped underneath.

“It’s not warm,” Geralt says. But he allows Jaskier to divest him of his armor regardless, patient and stoic. “Jaskier,” he says, once he’s down to his cotton undershirt.

“Mm?” Jaskier says, slipping his hands under the wet fabric to get his hands on the truly spectacular muscles of Geralt’s abdomen. He’s like a _statue_. A work of art. Truly, Jaskier is blessed this day. He could touch Geralt like this for hours, map him out like an artist, committing every divot and swoop to memory.

“I’ll have to fuck you. Is that fine?”

 _Fine?_ Is that _fine?_ Jaskier almost laughs with the absurdity of the statement. Of course it’s fine, it’s all he’s ever wanted, he thinks. It’s what he was born to do, the only thing that’s ever mattered.

“ _Please_ ,” he says, instead, because suddenly, overwhelmed by the mental image of Geralt doing just what he suggested, Jaskier is capable of nothing more than pretty begging.

He’s barely even aware when Geralt picks him up, only to deposit him onto one of their bedrolls only moments later. He makes quick work of Jaskier’s waterlogged boots, and then his trousers, peeling them from damp skin. Jaskier should feel bare, at the end of all of it, exposed under Geralt’s gaze, but he doesn’t. He simply feels delighted -- and impatient, too.

“Please,” Jaskier says again, though Geralt is already stripping off the rest of his own clothes, the ones Jaskier hadn’t gotten to. He leaves Jaskier’s side for a moment, but before Jaskier can even complain about it (too much, at least, because there is definitely some whining involved), he’s back with a bottle of oil he fetched from his bags.

Jaskier is already stroking his own cock again, though it provides little relief now. Barely a fraction of what it had given before. He wants Geralt’s hands on him. He wants Geralt _in_ him. It’s all he can think about.

But Geralt isn’t hurried about it, isn’t swayed by the gravity of the situation. He settles himself on his knees between Jaskier’s legs and touches at his thigh in a way that is not relieving at all, decidedly clinical and strangely detached. Jaskier doesn’t like that in the slightest.

“Like this, or would you prefer to face away from me?” Geralt asks. Like he’s trying to remain professional about this. Like they aren’t friends, like they haven’t done this before.

“Want to look at you,” Jaskier says, the truth slipping from his tongue before he can stop it, before he can even think about it. “Please, Geralt,” Jaskier whines. “I need you. It _hurts_.”

It’s no lie. Every inch of him aches with desire, now. With heat. The idea of Geralt filling him is heady, enchanting. His head pounds and he’s accosted with desperate images of it, fantasies that seem so real he can almost taste them.

“Alright,” Geralt says.

His palm moves up Jaskier’s thigh, heavy and warm. His fingertips are delightfully calloused, catching on the soft hair of Jaskier’s inner thighs. He doesn’t seem like he’s in a rush, touching Jaskier like this, like he’s trying to steady himself. Or, perhaps, like he’s trying to steady Jaskier -- who might be trembling, yes, but not from anything but terrible need. Jaskier has never known Geralt to be a shy man, nor a coward, so he doesn’t understand the hesitation, the sluggishness of his touch.

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier whines, “if you don’t fuck me, I will _die_. A little -- _ah_ \-- alacrity, please.”

Geralt only offers him a _hmm_ in return, his other hand moving to Jaskier’s other thigh. “You have some time,” he says, pushing Jaskier’s legs a bit wider, like he’s arranging him toward some vision. Easing Jaskier into place -- far too gently, at that.

“ _Some time_ ,” Jaskier parrots with more than a little mocking. “Geralt, I am going to need you to fuck me this instant. I’m not some blushing virgin. I don’t need --” He trails off, dragging his hand over his cock, which feels _nice_ , but is surely getting him nowhere fast. “Fuck. Just put it in me. Right now.”

Certainly not his best work, prose-wise, but it gets the point across. If he ever writes a bawdy song about this, he will be sure to make himself sound far more eloquent.

Geralt sighs. He grabs Jaskier by the wrist and pries his hand away from his cock. It’s so much _worse_ , but at least now Geralt has Jaskier’s full attention.

“I don’t wish to hurt you, Jaskier.”

And Jaskier would argue, but he finds that he still loves the way his name sounds on Geralt’s tongue.

“Kiss me, at least,” Jaskier begs. “If you’re going to take your time with it, you must at least distract me.”

Geralt, at least, gives him that.

He crawls over Jaskier’s body, kind enough to press the long lines of his naked flesh to Jaskier’s own, and catches Jaskier’s lips in a kiss. It’s just as sweet as Jaskier remembers it being, just as firm and decisive as he needs it. There’s nothing about Geralt that is hesitant or delicate, and his kisses hold true to the same. Jaskier finds himself so lost in it that he doesn’t register Geralt shifting, and he certainly doesn’t register him grabbing and opening the bottle of oil he brought over with him, but he must, because --

\-- because suddenly there’s a finger pressing into him, the slide of it eased by slick.

“ _Gods_ ,” Jaskier breathes out, though the word gets fumbled against Geralt’s lips. “More, _more_.”

It feels so good, so perfect, so absolutely _right_. Jaskier needs more of it, and he needs it now.

“Patience, Jaskier,” Geralt says. “I’ll take care of you.”

He presses his lips to Jaskier’s once more and kisses him slowly, unyielding when Jaskier tries to bite into it, when he tries to turn it into something fierce and frantic. He similarly does not let Jaskier squirm too fervently underneath him, laying his bodyweight down onto Jaskier to pin him and keep him still. In a more sober moment, Jaskier might appreciate the restraint, the denial -- but right now, it is but torture.

“ _Please_ , Geralt,” Jaskier begs, once Geralt’s finger has an easy slide, once Jaskier’s body takes the thrusts of it so smoothly and without friction.

It is perhaps because of that ease, and with very little to do with Jaskier’s begging, that Geralt relents and gives him another, pushing two fingers into him after adding more oil to both.

The stretch of them fills Jaskier, easing the burn of the desire that is raging within him. It has him gasping, groaning, arching his back off the bedroll. Geralt shushes him, honest to god _shushes_ him, before truly silencing him with another kiss. This time, it is deeper, more passionate, as Geralt’s fingers press knuckle-deep into Jaskier and then curl.

It feels heavenly and has him moaning something pretty, but it is not nearly enough. His body aches for more, and he whines out his pleas, as such, against Geralt’s mouth. They don’t get him any further.

Geralt fucks him like that for too long, until Jaskier is sweating and pleading, nails dragging down Geralt’s scarred back for purchase.

“I’m _dying_ , Geralt.”

“You have time,” Geralt says, pressing his lips to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth.

It certainly doesn’t _feel_ like it. But maybe Geralt takes pity on him then, because he’s soon pulling two fingers out and pressing in with a slick and blissful three.

He goes even _slower_ this time, which is agonizing torture of the worst degree. Jaskier cannot help but be thankful, though, as he feels closer now to relief. Like perhaps he can see it on the horizon. With three of Geralt’s massive fingers stretching him so wide, Jaskier’s death does not seem quite so imminent, nor as pressing.

Of course, Geralt is still slow with it, easing his way with the most frustrating patience. Perhaps even more so than before, which is agonizing. Brutal. Jaskier wishes he would simply slay him with the swiftness with which he slays monsters, but Geralt is stubborn and Jaskier is in no position to barter. He has tried, with as many pleas as he can muster, as much begging as his throat and his pride can take.

“I _need_ you,” Jaskier says, trying once more, when he thinks he can bear it no longer. He is loose and open around Geralt’s fingers and his cock is dripping onto his own stomach. “Please, Geralt.”

And perhaps he sounds so pitiful that Geralt can take it no longer, either, because he stills in his gentle stretching of Jaskier, fingers no longer pumping inside at the most torturous pace.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Geralt says again.

“I _need_ you,” Jaskier repeats, fervently and with considerable feeling. In fact, there might even be tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.

That, somehow, must give him some traction, because Geralt begins pulling his fingers free, distracting Jaskier from the feeling of loss by kissing him in a way that makes the world go sideways. It's delightful, the myriad of different ways Geralt can kiss. So gently, so firmly, and now so passionately that Jaskier feels as if he is being claimed. It makes his heart flutter, his chest going tight and hot at the implications.

But eventually Geralt has to pull back to better situate himself between Jaskier’s legs, and to maneuver Jaskier, too. He gets his hands on Jaskier’s hips, urging him up from the ground -- no, _holding_ him up, for the best angle. Hips, raised up perfectly, weight on his upper back. For once, Jaskier goes easy, letting Geralt move him in whatever way needed, happy to be manhandled into whatever pleases Geralt the most -- into whatever position might get Geralt inside him the _fastest_.

“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes out, just watching at this point. Naked, Geralt is a sight to be seen. Now, glistening with sweat and stream water, kissed by the light of mid-afternoon sun, he looks beautiful. Stunning. Too perfect for Jaskier to ever describe in prose or melody. He’ll just have to remember Geralt like this, so exquisite that Jaskier almost cannot bear to look at him fully.

“I’ve got you,” Geralt’s saying, thick fingers wrapped around his own cock as he lines it up against Jaskier’s hole.

He can feel it, the smooth, thick head of it teasing against sensitive muscle. Jaskier moans as Geralt begins easing it inside, too careful and too slow. There’s no denying that Geralt is large -- girthy as well as long -- the thick stretch of just the head of his cock is enough to tear any words apart in Jaskier’s throat, enough to have him closing his eyes to the sensation.

It has never once been like this before.

Jaskier has had countless partners in his life, and even more couplings. He cannot possibly begin to quantify the amount of pleasure he has received nor tally the number of orgasms he’s succumbed to. And yet -- this moment of Geralt slowly pushing inside to fill him? Feels better than all of it, exponentially so.

“Holy -- _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier says, unsure if he’s even intelligible at this point, or if he’s just slurring his words halfway to next week.

Geralt’s not even all the way in him yet, and Jaskier feels like he’s moments from _ascending._ If he has to die, truly, this is the way to go.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and it sounds fond and warm and sweet like honey, almost too much for Jaskier to handle at the moment.

It doesn’t hurt, but Geralt _did_ stretch him for hopelessly long. The sheer girth of him leaves Jaskier feeling open, and his length, as it slides in to the hilt, leaves him feeling impossibly full. By the time Geralt is fully seated in him, Jaskier is simply basking in it, eyes closed and moaning something fierce to the tune of this salvation.

There’s truly nothing like Geralt’s cock, his true silver sword, with which he’s currently slaying Jaskier, splitting him open at the seams and laying his soul to bare.

“Jaskier, open your eyes for me,” Geralt says, from somewhere within the swirling, pleasure-ridden recesses of Jaskier’s thoughts. He has one of his giant hands on Jaskier’s cheek, cupping it like one might a lover. Gentle, impossibly tender.

It’s not hard, doing what Geralt tells him, especially when Geralt is touching him like that, talking to Jaskier like he’s something special.

And when Jaskier looks at him, eyes opening to the light of the afternoon, he’s greeted with the sight of Geralt looking _wrecked_. Eyes dark, cheeks flushed with arousal. Hair around his face in shambles. He looks like everything Jaskier has ever fantasized about and more, the embodiment of a sultry sonnet or a erotic ballad.

“Gods,” Jaskier says, because Geralt’s not saying anything, just _looking_ at him, and Jaskier cannot let the silence stand undisturbed. “That’s it, that’s perfect. I need -- Geralt, I need you to fuck me. I need you to _move_. This instant.”

Half because he doesn’t think he can bear to have Geralt keep looking down at him like that, and half because he thinks that if Geralt doesn’t move immediately, Jaskier might spontaneously combust. It’s perfect, yes -- but it’s not enough.

Geralt, deity that he is, blesses Jaskier by relenting. Slowly, he begins to pull out of Jaskier by a few inches, only to press in once more.The slide is slick, from the oil, but it’s also tight, due to Geralt’s thickness and the slender nature of Jaskier’s frame. It’s _devastating_ , in the way that makes Jaskier feel like a gods-worshiping man, bestowed upon with heavenly devotion. Jaskier has never before felt something so pure, so unadulteratedly right. Like this, he thinks that he might have found salvation.

The movements are slow, at first, perhaps torturously so -- but then Geralt appeases his whining by quickening his pace, steadily, until he is fucking into Jaskier quite rapidly. Enough that every time he drives all the way in, Jaskier’s lungs sing. At such an angle, too, that Jaskier is seeing stars on every thrust.

Jaskier’s fingernails claw at Geralt’s back, urging him on, urging him forward. He tugs at Geralt’s hips, to the best of his ability, trying to get _more_. He needs Geralt _deeper_ , it feels like, something gnawing at his insides, ravenous for more. His skin is hot, burning up from the blood underneath it coursing through his veins like lava. It’s going to melt him from the inside out, scorching out every inch of him, if he doesn’t appease its hunger.

And Geralt? Geralt gives him everything he wordlessly asks for. Folding so easily to Jaskier’s whims, like a sheet in the wind.

It’s perfect. It’s everything. And yet --

\-- he needs _more_. It’s simply not enough, yet again. His body constantly craving _more_.

“I want you to come in me,” Jaskier pants, for some unknown reason, as he has never once before obsessed over _that_ fantasy where Geralt is concerned.

“I know,” Geralt says, pushing sweaty hair from Jaskier’s forehead. He doesn't elaborate, but at the moment, Jaskier doesn't really _care_ why or how he knows.

All he cares about is Geralt giving him this, about Geralt filling him with his warm release.

He expects Geralt to fuck into him faster, which he does. He _doesn’t_ expect Geralt to lean forward and catch Jaskier in another deep and ferocious kiss -- which he _also_ does. It’s messy and wet, less of a kiss and more something absolutely feral, but delectable nonetheless.

Jaskier can’t even bring himself to think of his own cock, as each one of Geralt’s thrusts gives him something so sweet that it leaves him dripping, shocks of pleasure shooting down his spine with every gasped breath.

“Geralt, _Geralt_ , ” Jaskier moans out, over and over, until Geralt’s name is a facsimile of a prayer on his lips. A repeated mantra he cannot forget.

Geralt is a quiet lover, frustratingly stoic and patient -- but as he draws closer to orgasm, closer to losing his control, he begins to slip. His breathing becomes more ragged, and the faintest grunts begin to fall from his lips. It’s a beautiful thing, watching Geralt lose his grasp on his control, and exhilarating to know that Jaskier is the reason for his demise. It’s such a rare experience that Jaskier wishes he could savor it for hours -- but alas, neither of them have that long.

Jaskier is close, but he _needs_ Geralt to come inside him first. He doesn’t know why, but he knows that without it, he will crumble.

Needy and desperate, he digs his fingers into the tender flesh under Geralt’s shoulders. He groans out a _please_ , and catches Geralt in another kiss, fierce and ferocious. Full of teeth and want and yearning, like he can articulate his own desire through the wildness of it.

That’s what does it. That’s what has Geralt jerking, rhythm faltering, a groan falling so fervently from his lips. His hips snap, fucking his release deep into Jaskier. It feels like fire, like ice, a salve to soothe all his woes. It feels so good, so perfect, like his soul is finally at ease.

And everything --

Everything goes white.

\--

When Jaskier comes to, Geralt is cleaning him off with a cool, damn cloth.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, watching in something akin to awe as Geralt cleans his release off his stomach, taking care even to wipe down Jaskier’s belly-button. His touch is gentle, soft. “I don’t remember coming.”

Immediately, Geralt’s hand stills. He looks up, meeting Jaskier’s eyes. “You’re awake.”

“I think so. Must be. I don’t actually -- did I pass out?”

Geralt _hmms_ and looks away, continuing to wipe off any remaining evidence from Jaskier’s skin. “It’s like a trance. You weren’t awake, but you weren’t unconscious, either.”

The cloth is cold and his skin is still damp with sweat. A shiver courses over him, leaving him clenching his teeth to a chatter. Earlier, he had been so warm -- now, the fair temperature of the waning afternoon is far more apparent. Perhaps Geralt had been right when he’d said it wasn’t warm at all.

Jaskier can’t even begin to voice the need for a blanket, or his clothes, before Geralt is draping something over him. From the smell of it, and the coarseness of the fabric, Jaskier judges it to be one of Geralt’s woolen shirts.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, tucking more of himself underneath the article of clothing. There’s something else over his legs, perhaps an actual blanket, but he’s too tired to look and see what it is. He’s exhausted, all of his limbs heavy and aching, like he just sweated out a fever. Which -- he supposes he did, actually. Just through a more active means than usual.

Geralt grunts and tosses the cloth to the side. He doesn’t move far away from Jaskier, sitting down next to his bedroll, though he does keep himself distanced enough that there’s no point of contact between the two of them anymore. Jaskier doesn’t like that, but he can’t quite put a finger on why. Of course, Jaskier is one to linger and cuddle after sex, regardless of circumstance -- but it feels more poignant than that. More engangled.

“I mean it. Thank you,” Jaskier says again. “For the covering, yes, but also for the -- help. Earlier. It was much appreciated.”

Another grunt, which is to be expected. Jaskier never expected Geralt to be particularly effusive after a romp in the sheets -- so to speak -- but he would certainly appreciate a _few_ more words out of the Witcher.

“Would I really have died?” he finds himself asking.

“I’m not sure,” Geralt says, after a moment of heavy silence. “With a larger dose of the venom, yes. But a small one...I’m not sure what would have happened.”

“Best that we didn’t chance it,” Jaskier says, trying to lighten the mood. “As for a cure: would not all remedies be so pleasant.”

Geralt hums once more. He tips a water-skin to Jaskier’s lips and lets him drink, holding his neck up like one might a fevered child or an invalid. Jaskier could probably hold himself up, but he greedily accepts the gentleness that is offered, regardless. He feels wrung out and exhausted, a little raw on the inside and in need of touch.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. “Can you -- no, nevermind.”

“What is it?” Geralt asks.

It feels silly, needy. Childish, even. Jaskier has been out in the backwoods of the continent with Geralt on adventures for far too long to feel this _clingy._ But. He’s cold, and his body aches with need -- this time, in a far more human way than the venom left him with.

But he’s tired, and the worst Geralt can do is deny him. “Can you come here?” Jaskier asks. “Lay with me. It’s cold.”

Shockingly, Geralt aquieces. He doesn’t slide underneath Jaskier’s makeshift blankets, but he does settle himself down next to Jaskier on the bedroll, laying on his back with his eyes to the purpling sky. It’s almost romantic, lying next to Geralt as the sun sets, as the crickets and cicadas begin to sing -- or it would be, if not for the circumstances at hand.

For a long while there is steady silence between them, still and unmoving.

“Did I hurt you?” Geralt asks, voice quiet, as if he thought Jaskier might have fallen asleep.

“Of course not,” Jaskier says. “You were very conscientious. Very gentle. I’m not a blushing virgin, you know. You couldn’t have broken me, so you really don’t have to keep fretting.”

“I’m not --”

“You are,” Jaskier says, turning on his side to look at Geralt. “For someone so stoic and serious with no emotions whatsoever -- which is a lot of horse-shit, by the way -- you are definitely doing a lot of fretting.”

Geralt answers him with another grunt. He closes his eyes, likely because Jaskier is now staring at him, refusing to look away.

It’s warmer now that Geralt is next to him, but Jaskier scoots closer, anyway. He’s pleased when Geralt doesn’t recoil or shuffle aside, and simply lets him crowd in close. The man is like a furnace, it is absolutely unreal.

“We’ve done this before, as I’m _sure_ you remember. So it’s alright, if you’re worried about it. Absolutely consensual, and definitely enjoyable. I don’t know why you’re twisting yourself into knots over this.”

“It wasn’t,” Geralt says.

“Wasn’t what,” Jaskier asks. “Enjoyable, or consentual?”

“Consensual.”

Jaskier makes a noise, doubting and concerned all at once. “On my part, or yours?”

“Yours,” Geralt says, voice rough, like the word might actually pain him.

“Okay, well, I’m telling you right now that it was absolutely fine. Yes, the circumstances were certainly extenuating, to say the least, but there’s no one I would trust more to get me through something like that. I’m giving you my consent after the fact. It was fine, I’m fine, and it was overall a very enjoyable time, even though I don’t remember the end of it,” Jaskier says. “Now, tell me, was it consensual on _your_ part?”

“Of course,” Geralt says, through gritted teeth. The words don’t sound untrue, but he does still sound pained about it, wracked with guilt perhaps.

“Geralt,” Jaskier chides, suddenly overwhelmingly _fond_. “You don’t have to worry, but you’re making _me_ worry. Are you fine?”

“Yes, of course I’m fine.”

“How is this any different from the other time?” Jaskier asks. “If that was fine, this should be fine, right?”

Geralt makes a garbled sort of noise, halfway between a grunt and a growl. It sounds a little like defeat, like perhaps Jaskier’s logic was solid enough to not leave any space open for argument.

Jaskier has a sneaking suspicion that the problem here is that _this_ time it was Jaskier’s choice that was hindered, instead of Geralt’s. And Geralt, self-deprecating and self-disparaging man that he is, likely considers his own choice to be less important than someone else’s. If Jaskier were to guess, Geralt’s concerned he stepped all over Jaskier’s agency, when he’s not at all concerned that Jaskier did the same in the past. Likely, he hadn’t even considered it at all. It’s probably doubled by the fact that this coupling of theirs was a bit more _involved_ than the last time, even though Jaskier was oh so willing.

Of course, Jaskier isn’t about to _voice_ any of that to Geralt, because it seems like it’s already a rather tender topic.

So, he must plow ahead, but delicately. With tact.

“What if we construct an agreement?” Jaskier says, pressing his palm to Geralt’s bicep. Contact is good. It connects the two of them, especially with a gentle touch like this. He’s wearing a cotton shirt, now, because of course Geralt clothed himself at the earliest opportunity. From the looks of it, he also picked up the clothing they had scattered along the way, as well.

“An agreement?” Geralt sounds doubtful.

“Something that provides a groundwork of consent, should there be future scenarios like those we have encountered in the past. Something that says, ‘ _Yes, I agree for Geralt of Rivea to fuck me six ways until Sunday, should the need arise,’_ so that you’ll no longer be plagued with this silly guilt. _Really_ , Geralt, I’m quite fine. Honestly, I haven’t had sex that good in ages, and I really do trust you with my life and beyond.”

Truthfully, Jaskier hasn’t had sex that good _ever,_ actually -- but Geralt doesn’t need _that_ kind of ego boost, especially when Jaskier can’t even remember his orgasm.

“Hm,” Geralt says, though he does open his eyes to cast a careful glance over at Jaskier. Assessing him. “Fine,” he says, after a long moment.

Jaskier grins. “Perfect.”

“I agree, too,” Geralt says, before Jaskier can even continue.

“Huh?”

“For you. To help me. Should the need arise.” He’s not blushing, exactly, but the very tips of his ears are turning a little pink. Though, that could be the hint of blush in the air, the dusk’s touch reaching Geralt’s face and his face only. “I trust you, too.”

Jaskier’s smile widens even more.

“I’m glad we are in agreement. Now, I think I’d like to nap, unless you have any qualms about that. I should hope that when I wake you won’t have wandered far, or I’ll be very disappointed.”

The last thing Jaskier wants is Geralt running away, especially not right now. Even with this settled, the ground feels rocky and the air is cold. Jaskier doesn’t wish to wake alone, to only see Geralt months later, as is their usual pattern.

“Sleep,” Geralt says. “I’ll be here.”

\--

Geralt stays true to his word, for when Jaskier awakes at the first breath of dawn, Geralt doesn’t seem to have even moved a muscle -- save to have pulled a blanket over the two of them during the night, that is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, hello, i didn't exactly mean for this to take a month (exactly!) to update, but life would not stop happening. multiple job interviews, a subsequent job offer, and a (planned!) surgery later, i am back again with this chapter. i hope you enjoy!
> 
> why does the venom work the way it does? who knows! it's _magic!_ don't worry about it! ~~trust me, i'm a scientist.~~

**Author's Note:**

> as always, any comments or kudos would make my day. 
> 
> i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/brawlite) and [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com), if you are so inclined.


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